Literal Kitchen Nightmares

LITERAL KITCHEN NIGHTMARES

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a Mothgrinder fan\fidtion by Ryan Salazar
illustrated by Marie Songer

Gordon Ramsay stood in front of the walk-in refrigerator,
readying himself to open it. He was contractually obligated to
search the contents of the fridge, in the hopes of finding any
impurities he could chew out the pizzeria staff for. This fridge
felt different however, like the chill in the air extended past the
sealed door, cutting through the core of Gordon's very being.

Gordon took a deep breath and pulled the fridge open.
He expected the warm glow of a lightbulb to illuminate the
interior, but instead found a ceaseless abyss of existential
dread, extending so far into the distance the light of the kitchen
around him couldn’t reach any discernible end.

“What the fuck?” asked Gordon, poking his head into the
opening. The neverending darkness of the fridge felt ice cold.
Gordon quickly realized he couldn't hear the comforting hum of
a refrigeration unit creating the chill around him. The darkness
and the cold were one in the same. Gordon pulled himself back
from the fridge, feeling a slight resistance in the process, as if
the darkness beyond didn't want him to leave. He turned his
head toward the kitchen staff.

“Mario, two seconds,” he said, motioning to the head
chef.

Mario walked over, his face already filled with shame.

“Mario, what the fuck is this?” asked Gordon, motioning
toward the nightmarish cavern hidden inside the kitchen
appliance.

“That’s our refrigerator, chef,” replied Mario, sheepishly.

“Are you joking me?” Gordon asked, his brow furrowed.
“This isn’t a fridge, this is a gateway to eldritch horror!”

Gordon reached into his pocket, and pulled out a tiny flashlight,
clicking it on. The extra light from the flashlight only served to
illustrate how much further the chasm of darkness extended
beyond human comprehension. “Come with me.”.

Gordon and Mario entered the refrigeration unit, two
explorers entering the infinite unknown. The kitchen behind
them seemingly ceased to exist, and the walk-in refrigerator
around them became a liminal space, existing beyond time
itself. Gordon and Mario had become one with the emptiness.

Gordon turned his head, to see a metal shelf holding a
few plastic buckets. He quickly moved towards them, picking
one at random to inspect.

“Look at this!” said Gordon, pulling the plastic wrap off
the top of the bucket. Inside was a pile of slimy chicken
cutlets, long past their expiration date. Gordon reached his
fingers into the pot, pulling out one cutlet. He gave it a quick
sniff, recoiling in disgust. ; wer

4

“Smell this!” said Gordon, holding the cutlet to Mario’s
face. Mario, eyes wide with terror, brought his nose to the
decaying bird flesh, and breathed in deep.

“It smells sour,” said Mario, embarrassed.

“It’s rotten!” shouted Gordon, dropping the cutlet into
the bucket.

“Maybe we can add sugar and call it sweet and sour
chicken?” Mario asked, with a nervous laugh. It was clear he
was already cracking under the pressure of Gordon’s
inspection.

“Is this a fucking joke to you?” asked Gordon. He
reached in and grabbed a handful of the decaying meat, to
show Mario.

“No, chef!” said Mario, immediately recognizing that
Gordon wasn’t in a joking mood.

“Then stop fucking around!” said Gordon, spiking the
bucket of meat into the ground.

Gordon turned his attention to the wall behind the shelf,
pitch black, with a rough texture to it. He placed a bare
fingertip against the surface, scraping off a thick glob of dust
from it, before rolling it between his forefinger and thumb.

“Fuck! When’s the last time this was cleaned?” asked
Gordon, showing his dirty digits to Mario.

“Last week,” said Mario, unable to break his gaze with
the dust on Gordon’s fingers. He felt as if the dust was
beckoning him to venture further into the darkness.

“Last week!?” shouted Gordon. “This dust has been
here since before the birth of the universe, you fucking
donkey!”

As he finished his insult, Gordon sensed something in
the abyss beyond. “What’s this over here?” he asked, pointing
into the nothingness. He and Mario ventured further into the
void, and after what felt like several eternities, they came
across a body, face down on the ground.

“Fuck!” said Gordon, moving toward the corpse.

“Mario, look at this!” Gordon flipped over the corpse,
revealing a decayed human body, with a nametag reading
‘Chef Gordon Ramsay’.

“What the fuck!?” Gordon said, holding up the corpse
for Mario to see. “Look at this! Look at the body!” Mario was
visibly panicked, unable to form words.

“Talk to me, Mario!” shouted Gordon, holding up the corpse
even higher.

“l-I-I,” stuttered Mario, his brain fully in panic mode.

“Mario, eyes on me,” said Gordon, snapping his
fingers.

“We cannot have a fridge that reveals to us the death
of our own egos! This breaks every food safety code!”

In the distance something scuttled. Gordon dropped
the corpse, shining his flashlight toward the noise. As he
looked into the abyss, the abyss looked back with two red
glowing eyes. Sensing imminent danger, Gordon stood tall.
His television host bravado kicked in, and he marched
towards the obscured figure, continuing to shine his pocket
flashlight. As he moved forward, the figure leapt high into the
air, disappearing into the darkness. Gordon frantically shined
his light around, searching for those red eyes. As he did so,
he heard the sound of large wings flapping closer and closer.

—

Being a black belt in karate, Gordon knew his sense
of sight was only holding him back, so he closed his eyes,
and focused his sense of hearing on the oncoming object.
With lightning fast reflexes, Gordon reached out into the
darkness, catching the figure as it attempted to swoop down
on him. He pulled the figure down into the soft glow of his
flashlight, revealing a horrifying mix between a moth and a
human infant.

“Oh goodness,” says Gordon, firmly holding onto
Baby Mothman. "Oh dear. You poor thing. Come here. Papa
Ramsay has you.”

Gordon swaddled the baby mothman in his arms,
and the creature immediately clung to his chest, gently
nibbling on the fabric of Gordon’s apron. Gordon’s
seventeen total Michelin stars materialized around him,
combining with the faint light emanating from his pocket
flashlight. The light of his torch grew fierce, causing the
overwhelming darkness around them to recoil. The
unending cold of the space began to dissipate, replaced by
the warmth of Gordon’s maternal embrace.

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“Mario, follow me,” said Gordon. The two lost souls
and their baby cryptid trudged through the tunnel of
nihilistic terror. With each step, wildflowers bloomed
beneath Gordon's feet. Another eternity passed as they
moved through waning darkness, until eventually they
found the doorway back into the kitchen. As they emerged
from the fridge, the rest of the staff stood in awe, watching
the radiant celebrity chef and his crew re-enter their plane
of existence.

“| need everyone to stop what they are doing, and
gather around,” proclaimed Gordon, with the confidence
only a muti-millionaire trained by Marco Pierre White could
wield.

The staff of the pizzeria all involuntarily dropped their
cooking utensils and shuffled over to the all-powerful
Gordon, bending the knee before their new king. Mario
sheepishly kneeled behind two of the line chefs, hoping
Gordon would spare him further judgement.

“Now that, was a fucking disgrace!” began Gordon,
his voice conveying a mixture of transcendental
disappointment and a mild tummy ache. “I have never, in all
my years of hosting this show, seen such a foul refrigerator!
| need everyone to get their cleaning supplies, because we
are going to scrub down every inch of that abyss, and throw
out all of the rotten food and corpses inside!”

“Yes, chef!” said the entire cooking staff, none brave
enough to make eye contact with their televised lord and
savior.

“I’m going back to my hotel, but tomorrow, we can have
a fresh start, and we'll turn this pizzeria back around!” Gordon
exclaimed.

The staff hopped to their feet and began cheering,
rushing off to the supply closet to get their cleaning supplies.

KREKRERERERERKEKEKKE

The next day, Gordon stood before the back entrance of
the pizzeria, surrounded by the staff, all bowing before their
new celebrity deity. “Yesterday was a disaster,” said Gordon.
“But | was delighted to see you all come together to turn this
kitchen around.”

The staff looked up at their one true god, eyes filled with
tearful joy. “Thank you, papa Ramsay!” they all said in unison.

“Follow me inside, because | have a few surprises for
you!” Gordon exclaimed, walking into the kitchen.

The staff all rushed to the back entrance, shoving each
other over to be the first to see the bounty brought forth by
their heavenly father. One by one, they laid eyes upon the
freshly renovated kitchen, unable to speak as the sheer
euphoria had overpowered their feeble human minds.

“I'd like to welcome you, to your brand new kitchen,”
said Gordon, his arms spread wide as a gesture of eternal love
and acceptance. “Over here, you'll see your new state of the
art, stainless steel appliances, hand made by yours truly of
course.”

The staff gazed upon the new stovetops and prep
counters, delicately glistening under the freshly installed LED
lights. Every knife and rolling pin were laid out on the counter,
still steaming, as if they had just been brought over from the
forge.

“And over here,” continued Gordon, his benevolence
knowing no bounds. “We have a beautiful, rustic, brick oven,
also hand made by yours truly.”

The staff moved their eyes over to the new pizza oven,
their dilated pupils eagerly welcoming in the light reflecting off of
the surface.

“Unfortunately,” said Gordon. “We were not able to get
rid of the walk-in refrigerator for two reasons. First, because it
expands beyond the limits of human perception, making it a
nightmare to dispose of. And second, because our dear friend,
and head chef, Mario, went missing last night while cleaning it,
thereby making it an active crime scene.”

The somber words hit the staff like a bucket of chicken
cutlets, driving the air from their torsos. They fell to their knees,
crying and wailing at the loss of their comrade.

Gordon watched them mourn for a full minute, his face
expressing sadness, before cracking a sly grin. “But | do have
another surprise for you,” he said, pointing to the kitchen
entrance.

The staff paused their lamentations, looking up to see a
figure in the shadows.

“It is my honor and privilege to introduce to you, your
new head chef,” Gordon said, with a dramatic pause only
acceptable in the world of reality television. “Baby Mothman!”

The figure hopped forward, revealing Baby Mothman
wearing a tiny apron and chef's hat, both with several holes
chewed into them. The staff began wildly applauding, as their
new head chef leapt into the supply closet, so it could chew on
the spare aprons.

“Now then,” continued Gordon. “Let’s fire up this pizza
oven and start preparing for the lunch rush!”

Gordon reached down, picking up a wooden log resting
next to the oven. He took a small knife from his pocket, and with
superhuman speed whittled the log into a three-dimensional

topographical map of Italy. As soon as he finished his sculpture,
he opened the door to the oven, and tossed it in.

Gordon stepped to the side, allowing the pizzeria staff the
chance to bask in the warm glow of the oven, a symbol for their
reignited culinary passion. As the staff enjoyed the feeling, they
heard large wings flapping in the closet. Before anyone could
realize what was happening, Baby Mothman, like a moth to
flame, flew directly into the oven, immediately catching fire.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Gordon, shoving aside
members of the staff until he was directly in front of the oven.
He reached in, bare handed, to rescue Baby Mothman. But it
was too late, as the tiny abomination had already been
reduced to smoldering embers. “Oh fuck!” Gordon cried out,
scooping up ashes of his immolated child by the handful. The
room came to a pause, as Gordon, despite his seemingly
limitless power, couldn't reverse death itself.

Just then, the door of the walk-in refrigerator began to
rattle. A loud thud came from the other side, followed by
several more, until the door flung open, revealing Mario. The
once nervous head chef stood before them, now a grizzled
old man, having aged at least ten years overnight. His thick,
unkempt beard cut through space and time as he re-entered
the universe.

“Looks like today’s special-” Mario said, with a pause so
pregnant it was nearly crowning. “Is Mothzerella!”

“Mario,” said Gordon, with a smirk. “You cheeky fucker!
Come here!”

Gordon dropped the ashes in his hands, and embraced
Mario. The staff all joined in, forming a giant group hug. Truly
they had been through an emotional rollercoaster that day, but,
in that moment, everyone connected through a shared
embrace, they knew that the pizzeria was going to be just fine.